This year crawls toward Calcutta
my beloved misery
like some tiger famished for more
and like tongues performing acts
I have only read in old books
left over from dear
beloved College Street
(my intellectual confidant)
and not felt
in the blood of my blood;
So do it to me, my love
help me erupt like sadness
gagged by sadness,
help me run the streets
screaming Holy Murder
and save my dear old Calcutta
my misery and my most
triumphant defeats;
And yet you are still, still
you are yourself and not mine
(like some middle age fetish,
mindful of some girdle of chastity)
your young swings lush
and dangerous
in the air and water and
fire and winter of Calcutta,
and yet you are yourself and
not the years I used to know